Before the Alarm: On making a morning offering

+ J. M. J.


I rolled over. Well, I tried. Being 36 weeks pregnant is wonderful. But I made the decision I didn’t want to go anywhere. Except, maybe, the bathroom.


It isn’t easy to get out of bed in autumn. God doesn’t turn on the lights bright and early anymore. I laid there in the darkness. 6:25. The alarm would go off in five minutes. That would mean the baby in the next room would wake. The dear husband would roll over in unconscious protest at being alive. Milk, diaper, breakfast, clean up, shower, search for a miniature sock’s pair… I made the mental list.


But it wasn’t time for that. I still had five minutes of stillness. I could¬†succumb to sleep for a few of those.¬†But it wasn’t my five minutes. I heard the same thing in my head that I hear every morning, my conscience’s daily loop: “Put your feet to the floor first thing. Don’t put it off.”


Sometimes I want to greatly dislike my guardian angel for waking me up a few minutes before the alarm goes off every day. On those grumpy days I want to ask him, “You don’t need sleep so what would you know?” He probably didn’t ask for someone so, er, feisty to light, guard, rule and guide.


Yes, my guardian angel does a good job keeping me humble–and on my toes. Literally. I untucked the covers and put my feet on the floor. God gave me a new day and my beautiful family to share it with. The very least I could do to thank Him was spend the next four minutes alone with Him.


It comes easy to change diapers, fill sippy cups, clean the high chair tray, stuff diapers, etc., because I see my daughter’s needs being met. Serving her brings me joy.


In relationship with God I am the toddler. He tends to needs I am unaware of and cannot pay back. My toddler daughter doesn’t need to thank me in order that I love her. But when she comes up to me for a hug or brings me a book to read because she enjoys spending time together she is saying, “I love you. Thank you. I trust you will take care of me.”


God does so much more for me. The very least I can do is look heavenwards at the beginning of my day and say, “I love you. Thank you. I trust you will take care of me.” The upper-hand I have on my daughter is that I can say, “Now what, Father, do You want me to do for You?”


Suddenly waking up earlier isn’t such an inconvenience.